Šrift:Väiksem АаSuurem Aa
Whose hand can summon from the harp a tone,
So thrilling, that it calls from latent sleep
Heroic thoughts, dims eyes, that seldom weep,
With tears of extasy, and fires the breast,
Till listening warriors, from their chargers leap,
Assume the glittering helm, and nodding crest,
Unsheathe the ready sword And lay the lance in rest
But not of war, nor of the battle blast,
Sung now the kingly harper. No his strain
Was mournful, as a dream of days long past.
At times it swelled, but quickly died again;
And oh! the sadness of that wild refrain!
Suited full well with the lone, solemn hour,
Too sad for joy, too exquisite for pain,
It touched the heart Subdued the spirit’s power
Blent with the Danube’s moan, and wailed around the tower
Richard’s Song
Thrice, the great fadeless lights of heaven
The moon, and the eternal sun
As God’s unchanging law was given,
Have each their course appointed run.
Three times the Earth, her mighty way
Hath measured o’er a shoreless sea;
While hopeless still from day, to day,
I’ve sat in lone captivity;
Listening the wind, and River’s moan,
Wakening my wild harp’s solemn tone,
And longing to be free.
Blondel! my heart seems cold, and dead;
My soul, has lost its ancient might;
The sun of chivalry is fled
And dark despair’s, unholy night
Above me closes still and deep;
While wearily each lapsing day
Leads onward, to the last, long sleep;
The hour when all shall pass away;
When King, and Captive, Lord, and Slave